we'll share the world with all the words we have
Rating: PG13 (...this can be Gen, really.)
Fandom: Reborn!
Disclaimer: It so obviously does not belong to me.
Prompt: khrfest Round 5.I.1. Cozart/Giotto - "it's been a long, long time."
Warnings: Aside from the usual homosexual undercurrent and how blatant it is for something that could also be interpreted as a very intimate friendship, this is a mix of angst and fluff. ...At least, I think it is. The non-canon compliance, which is becoming more and more frequent, and they're a bit out of character, too. ...Probably. Mileage may vary, I guess?
Summary: A moment of reconciliation: Cozart had always been the stronger of the two, in the end.
Note: Shut up, canon. Cozart died. :| gdmit Amano .....Plot was planned pre-326, so. sobs;;orz;
at the end of the cosmos
"...Into the world's double horizon
of sienna and cyan, cyan and cerulean,
primary hues of earth meeting sea
and of sea meeting sky..."
"Do you still remember," Cozart asked, in a tone distant and nostalgic, "what color the sky was that day?" The question was both expected and unexpected, but the silence between them had been too taut, too still. There was a smile on his face that Giotto did not recognize, and it was with a similar smile that it was returned, even though he tried to make his expression warmer, more affectionate, as befitting of the close friends they had been. Had been. Had. Were they still?
He still knew what particular day it was, "Cerulean, was it not?", but it was so strange that their smiling lips could be so guarded.
"Maybe," Cozart remembers cerulean: deep blues, bright blues, greenish blues. It was azure, the color of sapphires, the light shades of the ocean, and the hue of the skies. It was even in its name, caeruleus, caelulum, caelum from Latin; 'blue-greens', 'heavens', 'sky'. It was the color of Giotto's eyes.
"That's very poetic of you."
The boy from before would have blushed, but Cozart Shimon was a man now, and he had been for a long, long time. "Thank you," he simply said, leaning back. "T'is true, you know. It is the color of your eyes."
"So you have said," Giotto nodded, "many times before."
"I must sound very redundant, if so." Cozart relaxed just a little bit, shaking his head. Absently, he reached towards Giotto, letting his fingers brush against the other man's shoulder. The tips traced the creases of the mantle and the clinking chains until they reached his collar, the knot of his tie, and finally the pale flesh of the Vongola's neck. There, Cozart felt Giotto's pulse as it quickened, even if only for the slightest pace.
He looked up from the fingertips laid against flesh, and the upward curl of Shimon's lips was timid, almost sad when their gazes met. "It's been too long," he said, as he lightly pressed his calloused fingertips on the soft skin, pushing it back and guiding the younger man to tilt his head sideways. "I don't know how to react to you anymore."
Giotto sighed and closed his eyes. "Neither I you." His hand, bared without the silk of his gloves, covered the other's, gently cradling it in his fist. "A lot has happened since we saw each other last." His grip tightened, his eyes refused to open, in fear that all they would see is that passive face (when did his expressions become so cold?), if not a gaping skull severed from its broken body and its lifeless stare----
"Would you rather be alone?" The Vongola asked, the tremor absent from his voice yet the Shimon knew it was there all the same. There had always been something beautifully fragile about him, mused Cozart. His countenance was always strong, always firm, always collected, almost aloof, almost unattainable. It was always an air, never an expression, for Giotto's features were kind and cherubic no matter how much they've been hardened by years of strife and wars and life. Even now, he still resembled the child within whom he had found a kindred spirit and a very important, the dearest friend, in fact, he had ever had.
The memory brought about the beginnings of a familiar sight, that little grin they used to share. "You know I don't," and Cozart laughed. It was the rich kind of laughter that was mirrored by the molten lava of his eyes, those rare ruby eyes that watched the smaller man tense and relax under the sudden warm touch. Shimon leaned forward, amusement and easy camaraderie in every line and angle of his stretched body. His redheaded friend had always been like this, Giotto remembered, entranced in the way only the gravity of the earth may pull at the sky. Easy-going, perhaps not as ambitious nor as flighty as he himself was, reachable, warm and approachable, their noses brushed, and Cozart grinned. Too close. "Apprehension doesn't suit you, Giotto."
He did not stutter. He would no longer. "No," the blonde murmured, "I don't suppose it does."
"Mhmm," his mirth-filled smile was brittle on its edges, but it was a smile that was nonetheless heartfelt, "Your young Tsunayoshi is much like you that way."
The Vongola's features softened, and he wrapped his arms around his friend's body. It was painful, the resemblance, the memories, the nostalgia. They both knew too well. Like this, Cozart seemed so broken, as he enveloped them both with his mantle and tried to gather the shards in his hands, cutting himself in the process. But the mantle was warm, and it was familiar, and through the folds of black cloth, Shimon could pretend he could hear the other's heartbeat. "Perhaps he will grow into you."
Giotto stiffened, arms going rigid even as they remained on their perch over similarly narrow shoulders. "I pray he does not," came the soft whisper, and the cerulean eyes slid close, brow furrowed as though in helpless prayer.
His companion frowned, red hair brushing against the exposed flesh of the blonde's collar. "You are a good man, Giotto," Cozart rebuked, and his heavy, warm hands settled against his chest, "Trusting", and inched lower to the flat stomach, easing away the anxiety, "Earnest", to the narrow hips, fingers curling and squeezing in a measure of comfort, "Understanding." Leaning forward, he pressed their chests together, wrapped his arms around Giotto's waist, and the firmness of his grip and this resolve urged him to understand: "You take good care of your Family."
"...But perhaps, yes, I will have to agree." Their cheeks just a breadth away from each other, the breaths on his hair were comforting, and Giotto leaned back just as Cozart pushed himself forward. "Vongola Decimo is his own person, and he will make his own decisions." Red eyes dimmed, maybe in envy, it could have been hope, "There is the chance he will be more fortunate."
"...Fortunate?" the Vongola echoed, fingers flexing over the middle of the redhead's shoulders. Cozart answered simply, with the faintest hint of bitterness to the fondness in his tone: "Indeed, I wish him much fortune."
Knee-jerk reaction, composure lost, Giotto would have broken away, pulled away his hands, but his friend remained still, kept this easy camaraderie between them, kept them both in place, and it momentarily pacified the pain of betrayal, his failure, his loss, his immobilized time, eased the emptiness in the gap left behind by a shroud of mist, misunderstandings and much disappointments.
"You do not regret him," Cozart continued, and he need not speak that man's name. Shimon could not bring himself to, and cerulean eyes flashed liquid amber, "Or rather, you treasure him as much as you treasure G. and Asari, Padre Knuckle, Lampou and Alaude." Vongola does not tremble; Vongola does not waver. "He is important to you as I am, as you are to me."
Giotto was silent.
Shimon bowed his head, laid his forehead against the Vongola's shoulder, felt the soft golden hair brush against his cheek. "I do not blame you," he murmured, too soft, too gentle, too loving as always. "You always were too kind. Engulfing like the sky, correct?"
His voice held the weakness Giotto's never did, but it was his form -- it was his form, wasn't it? -- that was shivering, trembling, breaking. "It is just the way you are, why this position could only be yours." Slender fingers treaded through the fair hair, drummed against a bony hip, ever reassuring, and Giotto exhaled, shaken, "I knew then, and even knowing all I now know..." It was the Vongola's arms supporting the other, wrapped around the redhead's shoulders in a tight embrace, yet it was Shimon, tired, broken Shimon who kept Vongola, himself, from breaking. "I will make the same decisions, with you." Cozart had always been the stronger of the two, in the end.
A tremor. "Cozart, I--..." Breathless, choked, and he couldn't speak ----
"Giotto?"
---- through the laughter. Giotto laughed, the hysterical kind of laughter that brought tears to those cerulean eyes, made them shine. His features beatific, his smile more so, his fair haired friend buried his face on the crook of Cozart's neck. Fingers curled around the ginger strands of hair, almost painfully, most desperately. It's been too long since when they first began and they've never ended, he's missed this, they both have, and this was one thing they had that would not change:
It was a moment of weakness, but it was not between Vongola and Shimon, and neither were either of them 'Primo'. At the beginning was not the earth and its engulfing sky, nor was the sky and its grounding earth present. There were Cozart and Giotto, Giotto and Cozart: two vigilantes, two renegades, two boys who dreamed of better, more peaceful, happier futures.
"...I wonder if your Enma would grow up to be just like you, too."
Cozart's lips twitched, his embrace tightened, and he laid his smile against Giotto's golden hair.
FIN.
I shouldn't find it so amusing that all comparisons with earth=sienna, sky=cerulean aside, cyan (the sea) is also the color of Spade's eyes. And so the creeper included himself. Alas, (o^w^)o ~♫ I also tried and failed to capture the feeling of their time and friendship as well as the heartbreak and eventual alleviation of tension. I put emphasis on the failed.
Anyways, I notice that this work's narration is pretty confusing. It tends to switch between Giotto's and Cozart's point of view without warning, and I would have edited it, but actually indicating the switch ruins the story's flow so~ sorry about that! I hope it wasn't too bothersome? (o'∀'o)
References:
>>SOLSEQUIEM by Majorie Evasco -- This is a poem I found in a Spanish-Filipino literary magazine a college professor of mine lent to me. It was interesting, at least, and it first made me think of Cozart and Giotto with the quoted lines above, beneath the title. Thinking about it, I thought it was also a tad too applicable to the relationship of both 'Primo's with their 'Decimo's for me to resist. Tehee~
Again, comment please! They are loved! ♥♥♥♥!! Feedback is most appreciated.